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May 3, 2018

The window’s open,

The cat’s straight out,

Of his own accord,

Will I see him again?


There’s sun shining through,

Cold air streaming in,

Three in the morning ….

Beggars in a poor quarter,

I’ll walk with you’,

I walk alone’,



Where do they fall from?

The sky is dark, black,

Do they come at night?

What of circadian rhythms?

Go to bed child,

Now he’s out of business,

Out of work, for good,

That’s his wish:

It comes with contemplation,

Thirty years of prison,

Shackled to a desk,

Pen at hand.


Prison literature is best,

Prison poetry most certainly,

Where do they find inspiration?

Ah yes. Inspiration is flawed,

As principle and construct,

The same imagery, daily,

And it’s lowly,

Unlike that of Miss D.


Will I join or flee?

I’ll join then flee,

I’ll miss the good times,

Life’s not for good times,

It’s for battles won,

And lost, indeed.


Here, we struggle,

They laugh at my efforts,

I work, friend,

And it’s death unwarranted,

Or is it fulfilling?

It’s death. They laugh ….

They compliment. They laugh ….


A drunk’s stagger,

They live for nothing,

The dream is long dead,

The term ‘legend’ is gone,

No longer in the vernacular,

We participate or not,

We put on jolly old shows,

For no gain.


Why was she unseen?

In a small room,

No visitors welcomed,

She walked the grounds,

I’ve a small room,

No grounds:

The cat comes and goes.


Dusty old bookstore,

And dear lady owner,

A Jewish lady,

With cats a plenty,

At work, on her lap,

They wanted to come, she’ll say,

Cats: unreliable creatures.


He said resign,

He said re-sign,

A job’s hard come by,

I’ll be no reference,

In good faith or other,

A change of heart:

I remember you different.


Maybe I erred,

I made no song and dance,

Now I write naïvely,

In my native tongue,

Or hand. You’ll go far kid,

Goat herder, endlessly conversing,

His kids don’t reply

Well to his kid gloves.


Fear of the blank page,

I know not of this fear,

Though my prose is long dead,

But not on a blank page,

I read back over and over,

Never advancing,

The end is ne’er nearer.


In prison for perversity,

I call it freedom of speech,

I’m opposed to the cause,

I’m castigated,

Who am I to oppose the fanfare?

And were you one of them?

If so, our love’s dead,

Our love that’s not yet born.


We worry not for rent,

We live rent, loan free,

Our life could be of ease,

We work out day plans,

You’re never long there,

You sleep on a mattress of stone,

On the ground I’m not much better.


You’ve done it all,

Been most everywhere,

Days of rest add to frustration,

Stress caused by future tenses,

Will it be? Won’t it be?

Extension to infinitive forms,

Indicative of other forms,

Cry out, for it’s wearisome,

And I’m wary of the threat,

The past is, was, unorthodox,

The present’s now, and broken.


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